


Lo, My Eager Eyes

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Endearments, Lolita!Sam, M/M, Possessive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What?” Dean says, and he’s distracted, twelve years old to this disease of a boy; he’s built crooked for Sammy.</p><p>Dean can't see anything past the decadence of his little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lo, My Eager Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waywardelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/gifts).



> Written for [this prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/106475.html?thread=40039659#t40039659) over at spnkinkmeme.
> 
> Title taken from Lo, by O'Brother.
> 
> Also, belated gift for waywardelle, because I was going over this in a writer's frenzy (the more I re-read the more I loathe everything) but this reminded me of you (sorry it's so goddamned angsty; you know I don't know how to write without it)

Sin Pretty.

Sammy tastes like Ash Wednesday, blessing curled up to rest on Dean’s tongue; he’s blasphemous in his existence.

Dean teaches him the sign of the cross, gentle gestures of honor.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Wing-tipped eyes blinking wide; he learns criminally quickly, the way only Sammy knows how to do. Curls his five fingers up to touch his sternum, flutters over from left to right, way Dean demonstrates.

Dean teaches his Sammy the wrong words, though.

No other idols before him.

-

Dean knows what he looks like. It’s more tempered than from Before, when he was split-knee young, covered in the casual bruises of youth.

He’s twist-turned brittle by pyres and congested smoke, but They don’t know that.

Sammy doesn’t look anything like him, not even when Dean was eight, all hollowed out with the vestige of singed hair and flayed innocence.

Sam’s tiny, body too small for the containment of him, four feet and a smattering of leftover inches. Hair close cropped to his head, haphazard, even though Dean tries his best since Dad stopped.

Curls his hand lazily into the trap of Dean’s, runs his baby-silk thumb over the calluses decorating Dean’s palms.

“We going?” Sammy asks, tilts his head up so far that he must be that much closer to seeing home. Dean swings him up high into his arms; his boy-soft legs tangle around Dean’s waist.

“What?” Dean says, and he’s distracted, twelve years old to this disease of a boy; he’s built crooked for Sammy.

Sammy wraps both arms around Dean’s neck and tugs his older brother closer, mashes foreheads together with blameless intent.

“Santa,” Sammy says, and it’s petulant, fingerpaint-pink and demanding, Sammy’s mouth tight and warm around the word.

Course they’re going. Of course. Dean says as much to Sammy, reaching one hand up to cradle the back of Sammy’s head, shorn nails and sea-cracked skin catching on the velvet of Sammy’s hair.

“Promised you, didn’t I?” Dean says, and Sammy shimmies his body further up, resting on the cut of Dean’s hipbones like he’s carved out a throne.

“Two weeks ago,” Sammy says warily, like he doesn't already understand that promises are just duct-tape for fragile words; Dean’s only as good as what he provides.

“Dad wasn’t gone yet,” Dean says, and everything that comes out his mouth around Sammy is dumber than death, than God and all his Word, but Sammy’s nodding like Dean’s Revelations and this is the Truth.

“Gonna--” Sammy says, and his face flushes too-hot, bubblegum of frost-chill, and Dean kisses Sammy’s forehead to feel the malleable burn of it.

“What, baby?” Dean says, hung up on the bright of Sammy, can feel the spread of flame lick its way down Sammy’s small body, all that cinnamon skin painted for him.

“Gonna help me write to ‘im?” Sammy asks, head tucked down now, curved under the shelf of Dean’s chin. Sammy’s hands play with the stretched out collar of Dean’s t-shirt, tangle pianist fingers in it and tug loose.

“S’hard,” Sammy admits, still hush-quiet, and Dean counts the frantic hum of his heart from where it’s pressed too close to Dean’s own, the trot-pace of it, clipping through Dean’s ribs like a pendulum.

“Sweetheart,” Dean breathes, because Sammy reduces him to meaningless words that force themselves up from the soil of his insides to try and grow on empty air for Sammy; not enough, though. Not quite.

“Smartest damn kid in your class, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sammy trembles in his arms, such a soft shudder that Dean’s barely even aware that he pulls his little brother closer, stiffens his own body in response.

“Asked you to skip a grade, didn’t they?” Dean adds, and he’s flinging the words at the world, cause Sammy doesn’t need them, knows how smart he is without Dean reciting it like milk, bread and eggs.

“I can’t--” Sammy continues, and rears back, blinks dew from his eyes and pinches his supple bottom lip into the cavern of his mouth. “When I write Santa, sometimes, if I go real fast, the letters get mixed up.” Sam says, huffing out his words like penance.

Dean removes the hand that’s still caught in the back of Sam’s hair and drags it around to cup his boy’s cheeks, still slightly wine-stained, and Dean’s struck mute for a second.

He’s not worth his weight in rock salt where Sammy’s concerned, and it’s hard to shove the question out.

“What letters, baby?” Dean says, and Sam’s staring at the catch of his small fists when he finally answers.

“I don’ wanna write Satan.” Sammy says, and there’s a wet little gasp at the forbidden word, like even though he doesn’t know anything about the dark and the slick-blood Earth; he can sense the inherent wrongness of it.

Sam slaps at his chest, open-handed, and his smooth little body squirms in Dean’s unwavering grip. “Instead of Santa, Dean!” Sammy squeals, and there’s real panic in his voice, heightened by the way Dean’s apparently not listening.

Dean keeps his face steady by the Grace of a distant God, but then he thinks about how Sammy looks, flush-faced and lithe, eyes illuminated by the cracks of sun across snow, light from the window.

“I’ll make sure you don’t mess up, alright Sammy?” Dean says, can’t resist tucking a kiss at each corner of Sammy’s fruit-wet mouth, presses one on the upturn of Sammy’s small nose.

Dean squats then, releases Sam back onto solid ground, and his little brother’s legs twitch as they return to their rightful stance. Sammy’s smoothing the rucks in his small t-shirt, eyes fixed on the careful swoop of buttons down his flannel.

“The line’ll be long,” Sam says, and it’s coffin-serious, and Dean’s already looking for Sammy’s coat, the mittens he doesn’t like wearing.

“S’cold outside Sammy,” Dean says, knocking a chair out of his way as he crouches down before Sam again, tangles his little brother’s spindly arms into the fabric, even though Sammy’s perfectly capable of doing it himself.

Sammy’s hovering so still, statuesque, and Dean zips him up, careful not to pinch the vulnerable skin between sternum and throat. Sam only stamps his feet a bit when Dean tugs black mittens onto his hands, and then he reaches for Dean’s paw on his own, face upturned, baby teeth tucked into a wide Dean-grin.

Dean presses his fist to his mouth and bites down firmly, because there isn’t enough in all the world to explain this to him; this Sam thing.

Dean locks his knees together to keep from descending, wrecking the soft innocence of Sammy with his mouth, plunder and take and pillage, his own Death Star; Destroyer of Worlds.

“Don’t let go’a my hand, alright?” Dean says, and his voice wobbles with prepubescence and endorphins, cloud-catching with the way that Sam bobs his head, restrained by the small grey cap Dean adds to his attire on an afterthought.

Dean’s too young to drive; he knows how, but not in an area as densely populated as Elizabeth. Sammy takes three strides to every one of his, canvas-brown of his Vans disappearing in the snowdrifts that edge onto the sidewalk.

Dean looks down apprehensively, resists the urge to sweep Sammy back up into his arms, away from the phantom tendrils of ice. Sammy doesn’t seem to have any such qualms, the bottoms of his jeans are soaked, and Dean grips his hand a little tighter at the thought of denim sticking to pale ankles.

“Almost there,” Dean says unnecessarily, because Sam’s got eyes, he can see the building, the scattered appendages of the outlet mall, wide and festive with movie-blood red and fairy green. Wreaths are tucked into capable shapes above their heads, and Sammy breaks his neck trying to follow the line of wire reindeer up and under the arch of the entrance.

Dean’s already a lot taller than Sammy, not very hard, since Sam’s built so fragile, all that spun-silk smooth and baby-blush on his body. Sammy can’t see anything, no matter how hard he tries, and Dean’s heart fluctuates in his chest, dirty-tumble of too much.

The line for Santa stretches out past Burlington Coat Factory and runs even further out, wraps around the escalator and back, squalling infants in strollers, pinched-tight into parkas and onesies.

There are disposable cameras in hand, and one admirable mother wrestling her Ninja Turtle-clad son back down to the ground when he attempts to run to Santa on his own.

Sammy tugs on Dean’s hand, once, and Dean takes a knee, presses his ear close to Sammy’s chilled lips. “C’n I take my mittens off, Dean?” Sammy says, and his whisper is reverent, like it costs him a lot to break the magic of Santa.

Dean’s other knee smacks heavy against the linoleum when he takes Sammy by the hips and turns his brother to face him fully. Sammy sways on his feet just a little; he’s snow-burnt and excited, and he’s already got his tiny fingers out for Dean to take, tugs his zipper down to expose the milk of his throat.

Sammy’s blink is lazy-soft and he’s sucking on his bottom lip in a tell that Dean hopes he never learns how to lose.

“Will you hold ‘em?” Sammy asks, and Dean plucks Sammy’s hand free of the black and tucks them into his own jacket pocket.

“Told you it would be long,” Sammy says, and he sounds a little smug, but mostly anxious, and Dean rocks back on the heels of his feet with the knowledge that he’ll stay here so long as Sam demands it.

It’s then, in some faceless December of the rest of his life, that Dean realizes that other people see Sammy, and probably in a clearer way than Dean himself. They’re unfettered by the incandescence of Sam, the knowing, and it eats Dean up inside.

They’re watching his little boy, eyes bent down and backwards and under to catch a glimpse of carnation-cheeks and a slick tongue.

Dean pulls Sammy’s body until his little brother is facing forward, Sammy’s back to his chest, and Sam squirms against him, tilts his head back to grin up at Dean.

Dean’s hand is rough on the smooth of Sammy’s neck, and he watches the dull shine of want splutter to life, and Dean’s so glad he’s got the Sig tucked into his jeans.

Sammy’s unaware, can’t fathom the way he’s got Dean locked tight in one hand, he’s controlling the thrum of Dean’s heart and Sammy’s too cautious with it, as it is.

Dean didn’t think of the fact that he’d have to relinquish Sammy when it came time to sit on Santa’s lap, and Dean thinks crazily that he should’ve been the one to dress up, Sammy’s spider-wide legs tangled on his own, swollen little lips whispering secrets in Dean’s ear.

Sammy turns back to look at Dean, head angled in Santa’s direction, and Dean wants to shake his head no, drag Sammy back into the warmth of his body, but he acquiesces. Sammy stumbles forward, arms wide, so trusting in that if Dean allows it, it must be safe.

Santa leans down and swings Sammy up, clean arc in the air, and Dean strides four steps closer. He hasn’t seen ol’ Kris Kringle that enthusiastic in the hour or so they’ve been waiting, but he knows everything about Sammy.

He knows the decadence of his brother, untouched sugar of his skin, and Dean’s blood makes a racket in his skull.

“Merry Christmas Santa,” Sammy’s saying, hands tucked into the black of Santa’s belt. Dean can’t make out much of the guy’s face, due to the restrictions of Santa’s beard, but he can see watery blue eyes.

Santa’s face is trained on Sam’s, one large hand resting on the small of Sam’s back, head angled down to hear Sammy better.

Dean watches Sammy swing his little feet, one lace coming undone in his anticipation. Dean wonders if he’s a helicopter mom, the way he wants to tie Sammy’s shoes up real quick, so he doesn’t trip.

Sammy glances shyly over at Dean, crosses his feet at the ankles and leans his tiny body up further to whisper into Santa’s ear. Sammy cups his hand around his mouth; he knows Dean reads lips for a living, and Dean’s suddenly livid.

He wants to be privy to everything Sammy’s giving, and he crosses his hands at the wrist in an effort to steady himself.

Santa’s hand curves around the pillow-soft of Sammy’s middle, and Dean’s hips lurch forward in a stunted attempt to rip Sam free. Sammy finally pulls back, face flushed, and he peeks over at Dean with church-stained eyes.

Dean’s next to the Polar Throne in an instant, plucks Sammy free and drops him to his feet. Santa looks a little shell-shocked; his pale eyes dart to Sammy and up to Dean’s face.

Dean’s hands flit over Sammy without touching, and Sammy lets him, gnaws on that sin of a lower lip and holds out his hands for Dean to see to.

“Dean?” Sam says, dragging Dean’s attention from Santa back down to the absolute center of his gravitational pull.

“You ready?” Sammy asks, and Dean pulls Sam’s mittens on methodically. Dean zips Sammy back up safe, and then bends low, whisks Sammy into his arms like nothing, and Sammy’s dove-down head curls effortlessly under Dean’s chin.

“Santa said I could have everything I wanted,” Sammy’s saying, damp air from his mouth brushing Dean’s Adam’s apple.

“Coulda told you that,” Dean says, fights through the throng of last minute shoppers, one hand braced against the defenseless splay of the back of Sammy’s head.

“M’glad we came,” Sammy whispers, and it’s thick with exhaustion, almost incomprehensible.

“Go to sleep baby,” Dean commands, and Sammy’s already under when he nods.

-

Sam’s mouth is shiny-wet from his ice cream, and he’s all of ten years old, still too small to hold his own, baby-greens peering up at Dean pitifully.

“I’d be good at baseball,” Sam says, and his voice is hard, timbre of the man he’ll one day become.

Dean hunkers down low, newly fifteen, heart catching on the hook of Sam’s line.

Dean drags his thumb over the corner of Sammy’s lips, catches the dollop of vanilla clinging there. Sam’s t-shirt is wet from the sprinklers, stuck to his little body, the soft, almost non-existent pouch of his baby-stomach cradling the fabric.

Sammy’s basketball shorts are hugging his thighs, and he’s got one sneaker off, black socks squishing in between his toes.

Sam turns his head to the side, catches the worn edge of Dean’s thumb into his mouth, and Dean’s knees slap pavement so hard a frisson of pain shudders through his limbs.

Sam’s eyes are guileless, left hand sticky with the remnants of his cone, and Sam’s salty tongue swirls around the flavoring of Dean’s skin.

Dean can feel himself slipping away; is this what death means? And then he’s pulling his thumb free, only to jerk Sammy closer.

The motion is almost brutal in its intensity, and Sammy mewls with the unexpectedness of it.

“Duh--Dean?” Sammy asks, plaintive, and that’s what does it, Dean comes undone like the edges of summer to winter, dying leaves and shattered tradition.

Dean’s mouth descends on Sammy’s like a tempest, scrawls his own name on the sugar-stick of Sammy’s plush lips. Dean shoves his tongue inside to lick at the secret parts of Sam, the film of dessert on the ridged roof of Sammy’s mouth.

Sammy’s hands fly out and clutch at Dean’s t-shirt, fists the same size as they were at eight, fingernails kept low by necessity.

Sammy’s breathing his name into Dean’s mouth, and Dean cups the back of Sammy’s head, snakes his left hand down to splay possessively on the peach-swell of Sammy’s ass.

Sammy rises up on the flat of his toes and pushes closer, little mouth limp under Dean’s shivering assault.

Dean jerks back when he remembers that they’re in the middle of a driveway, locked into temporary suburbia while Dad’s healing up at Bobby’s.

Dean remembers that he stayed behind for Sam, always for Sammy, and Dad’s doped up on all the illegal ‘scripts of oxy that Bobby can funnel into his body in one go.

Sam’s mouth is juicy when Dean looks back down, puffy like infection, and Dean can’t resist, scoops Sam into his arms and uses his free hand to run his thumb across the swell of Dean’s transgression.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Dean whispers, and it’s enough to make his legs buckle. Sam’s legs are punch-tight on his waist, and Sam’s mouth falls open under his finger.

“Are you mad?” Sammy asks, matter-of-fact, but still so weak it rips Dean up inside. “M’sorry,” Sammy tries, and Dean stiffens. That’s enough of that.

“Don’t you ever be sorry,” Dean says, and he knows his voice comes out stiff, sounding like Dad’s, but he needs it to be obvious, needs Sammy to know that it’s all Dean here. Dean’s doing the drowning, the swift decay into a place they’ve never hunted before.

Sammy won’t ever be anything but this clean virtue, carved into diaphaneity and the ownership of Dean.

“There ain’t nothing but you, Sammy,” Dean says, and he doesn’t recognize the heedlessness in his own voice, the way he’s cleaving to Sammy like they’re stitched snug.

“Me?” Sammy repeats, and it’s tremulous, the way his little brother says it. Like he doesn’t know that Dean lives and dies because of him, not just in the wanting.

“Jesus, baby. M’fucked up. But, Christ I love you.” Dean garbles, and then Sammy’s pressing closer, body undulating against Dean’s, tiny hitch of breath when Sammy cries.

“What’s that?” Dean says, horrified, because Sammy’s trying to speak and Dean can’t understand him through the snot and press of his mouth to Dean’s collarbone.

“He didn’t--” Sam chokes out, elf-nose red-tipped and swollen. “He d’int say it would take so long, the everything,” Sam grinds out, and Dean has no idea what Sammy’s talking about, who He is; the definition of Sam’s entirety.

“Okay baby. Alright,” Dean placates, and his hands falter under Sam’s ass; he doesn’t want to take Sammy to Nothing alongside himself.

-

Sam’s limbs are long and lithe when he’s thirteen, not as exposed. He’s still small for his age, but Dean can see the way Sam bends, the way he holds his body, that he’s getting bigger. Sammy’s headed for a precipice, but right now he’s still tucked up underneath Dean’s arm, big eyes and larger than average heart.

Sammy doesn’t believe in magic anymore; Dean doesn’t know if he ever really did. Dean realizes that Sammy just believed in him, and if Dean supported the existence of a portly man in the night sky, then Sam did too.

Sammy doesn’t serve anything but his Dean and books; sometimes he gets the order reversed.

Sammy’s got an awareness of himself that only extends to Dean, doesn’t know what he does to people that aren’t his older brother, that don’t see the glass-bottle eyes and nut brown of his skin.

They can see Sammy’s river-run body, lean lines that hold the promise of more growth, and Dean knows they’re salivating with it.

He doesn’t concern himself much with their overt want, because he knows Sammy’s irrevocably his, the same way he knows John’ll hunt himself into his preemptively dug grave and burn out duller than his boys.

Doesn’t turn him strange and crooked the way it ought to; he loves his Dad, but he probably sees John Winchester with a plainness that Sammy doesn’t yet appreciate.

Sam makes Dad into a more complicated being than John has ever had the grace to know how to be.

Dad burns brighter than the two of them, for the sake that his light’s a bit more necessary; his torch is the way Dean’s would ache and brutalize itself into Dean’s being if Sam were the lost.

The heavy swell of his baby, not so hidden secret.

Sammy, twisting his lithe form into dirty shapes, shell-bend of his spine on Dean’s bed, ballerina legs open on filthy promise and little boy shame.

“Dean, Dean c’mere, jus’ a second,” Sammy says, slurs the words out even though Dean knows he’s the drunk one; he’s the one who sheds Dad’s old leather jacket and unbuckles his pants down to his boxers.

Sam squirms that much wider, bends his small frame broken to fit Dean in the center, and Dean’s hands are shaking with the thrill, the offering of Sam.

He doesn’t touch, not much anyway, because he can’t take Sam like this, no matter how much his lizard brain tells him it’ll be okay, Sammy’s thirsty for it in a way only Sam can be.

Sammy still belongs to himself, his precious boy, and Sam looks up, lashes wet with the way he’s crying, dick so hard it’s curving up to meet the dip of his belly button.

Dean’s crying now too, because Dean feels Sammy on amplification, and it singes him hotter than he’d otherwise be able to stand.

“I wanna, Dean, please, please,” Sammy wails, and Dean’s shit at not giving Sam what he’s after. He’s not good at ignoring those eyes and that voice.

“Sweetheart, not yet.” Dean says. “C’mon, baby. Can’t be lookin’ like that.” Dean continues, voice hitched lower than he’d like. “C’n you--Jesus, baby, can you get dressed?”

Dean’s breathing so hard he thinks he’s getting lightheaded from the strain, and it’s moments like these that prove to him that God’s a myth, and he’s also as real as the sin-flush of Sam’s skin.

“I will,” Sammy lies, and Dean, help him, believes, just for a minute. “C’n I have a kiss?” Sam says, and he rears his neck back, opens himself up, somehow further, and Dean’s hands flutter uselessly over air, trapped between Sam and the non-option of nothing.

Dean tangles both hands in Sam’s hair, growing longer, rebellious, and pulls. There’s safety here, no rosebud nipples growing up to meet his fingertips, concave of Sam’s stomach.

Dean bites at Sam’s neck, kitten licks, and then swoops upward to press his tongue into Sam’s waiting mouth, so much like the first time.

Dean’s so hard he can count out his pulse from every disconnected jerk of his dick in his boxers.

Sam throws his arms around Dean’s neck, butterfly thin, and drags Dean down, chest to chest.

Sam’s feeble tongue tastes a stripe across Dean’s lower lip, then drops open and waits. Dean takes the gift the moment it’s offered, shoves the muscle in and samples the cool porcelain of Sammy’s teeth.

Sam bites at his tongue, teasing motion, but then Dean rucks his hands down Sam’s naked back, closer than he’s ever allowed before. He hands are ghosting over top of Sam’s ripe little ass, closing in on the cheeks before he thinks better of it.

Sam’s neck drops back so far that his mouth pops loose of Dean’s with an audible smack.

“Dean?” Sam whines, body humping in futility, bowed in a bridge. Dean can’t see past his arousal, dick gnawing its way through the fabric of his boxers, damp in a soaking way.

“I did it for you,” Sam rushes out, like he’s hurtin’ to say it. “Got naked for you, want you--want you to want me like this,” Sammy finishes, touches the enclosed crown of Dean’s dick with one trembling hand.

“Oh Jesus, Oh God. Oh God.” Dean spits out, and he’s not even sure the words have retained any meaning, not with the way he’s flaying them.

“Oh..oh,” Sammy’s saying, like he’s all twisted up, and Dean knows his fingers are making half-moons in Sam’s thick flesh, but he can’t seem to renounce Sam now that he’s touched.

Dean’s gonna come on nothing at all; the sweet cotton candy of Sam’s words, the way his face is all wet and his eyelashes are in clumps.

Sam’s gonna drag him into confession.

“Baby,” Dean says, and the words cost him so much, but nothing is overkill, not for Sammy.

“I promised. I promised you, baby.” Dean says, slides his fingers away from the swell of Sam’s ass that he won’t ever forget, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees white noise.

“God.” Dean says, and it’s brittle. “When you’re older, sweetheart,” Dean says, but Sammy’s not answering, and when he looks down, his sweet boy is curled up, blankets up to his chin.

“S’not enough?” Sam asks, sheen of tears and sweat copulating on his cheeks.

“Too much,” Dean admits, half-dryly. “There ain’t nothing--Sam. Sammy.” Dean stutters, because he doesn’t know how to convey the lifeblood of it to his little brother.

“I’ll be good,” Sammy says, and it’s so dull that Dean’s erection is wilting, and he almost doubles in on himself. “I won’t do anything,” Sam finishes, and Dean reaches out his hand and connects with empty.

-

They’re in Providence when it happens.

It unfolds the way Dean expected it to, so many years ago, cursed with the care of Sam’s shine, tasked with keeping it unsoiled and his own.

He shouldn’t let Sammy do anything alone, go anywhere, but Sammy’s mouth convinces him of a lot of things he’s not quite sure he should be ready for.

Dean hasn’t been home with Sammy as often as he’d like, and Sammy just turned fourteen, grew three inches in a summer and now he doesn’t look like he’s gonna stop anytime soon. He’s still only about 5’7, but this is the fastest Sam’s ever spread out.

Dean’s so proud of his baby, his bright-eyed sacred boy, and he tells Sam so, in between honeyed kisses that leave Dean worse off than Sam, every time.

Dean gets home before Sammy does, and that’s the first tell.

Dean’s not much worse for the wear; his left ankle is a little sore, but that’s nothing a little R&R won’t fix in a hurry.

Dean hops in on his right, drops his duffel at the front door; he won’t clean his weapons any further in the motel room, not til he sees Sammy.

“Sam!”

Dean’s voice is useless-loud, it’s only one room and a kitchenette off to the side, and Sam’s got ears like a fox; he always comes running.

“Sammy!”

This is louder, it reverberates through what Dean should’ve realized at first glance was an empty room. Dean’s turning fluidly, hitching his bag up from the careless drop against the floor.

“Mary, Mother’a God,” Dean hisses, and he flings the bag open, contents arranged carefully, as is his way.

He’s got several blades in here, serrated tips that leave him wanting, coagulated blood staining impressive edges. Dean needs more than that here. He’s not prepared for this.

He can feel what he’d been blocking earlier, the erratic absence of Sammy, the crookedness in the loss, and Dean’s got other things in his bag, nastier weapons that he doesn’t just use.

He’s got _Shuriken_ bundled in the bottom, flat wooden box, carefully folded in velvet curtain, something that Dean knows how to handle, but never finds the need for.

He’d been teaching Sammy--Sam’s more delicate than he is, china-boned strength, honey-slick calculation of his eyes.

Sam’s body twisted faster with these, they’d winked silver in the air with shine and intent, and Dean liked to watch them fly--from Sam’s insistence to his target. Dean used to cut the edge of his thumb on ‘em, especially when he’d first started out.

But now Sam’s not here--he’s just gone, and the sick tilt of it has Dean lurching backwards, contents of his one and only meal sloshing up for a surprise guest appearance.

Dean’s better with _Bo-shuriken_ than Sammy is, but only because they’re more to the point, like throwing daggers, iron and steel, four-sided thimbles that sing through the air with their violence.

Dean’s only got two of them, and that’ll do just fine.

He’ll save the stars for Sam, four-points and Angels of David, wide opening in the center for Sammy to twirl around needlepoint fingers.

Dean tucks one in his breast pocket. For Sammy, he reminds himself.

Dean’s got his Beretta tucked in his waistband, but even he knows the odds of him being able to effectively use that on a civilian in this town are slim to none. He doesn’t want to nonverbally offer the proposition of a rapid end.

It’s still sticky warm with sun and seasonal humidity, but Dean’s got no stomach for that, drags the motel door closed with one sweaty palm.

Dean knows Sammy’s walk back from school the same way he knows Sam, identical to his charge, sleep-heavy breaths and shuttered-closed grins. He walked it himself, five times, to ensure it.

Sammy’s young, but he’s a Winchester. He’s anything but naive. Whatever Dean’s dealing with here, whatever this is, they haven’t yet invented words for Dean and his relationship to it. Dean’s swimming with malformed thoughts. His ribs are bruised up--a pain he’s been ignoring since he got home, thought of the blanket-warmth of Sammy, fluid limbs draped around Dean’s own, song of his body.

The low grunt of agony that shoves its place out of Dean’s mouth startles even him, and he’s following the line of sidewalk back towards Hope High School, early prison structure from the 1800’s.

Sammy sticks out like a sore thumb there, pretty and lanky, pale-milk skin with a sheen of gold dust. Doesn’t look anything like the other kids, and that’s something that should be avoided at all costs. Dean’s shock-stupid when it comes to Sam.

Sammy got his wish though, and Dean regrets every second of it, reed-thin, eyes angled up to face Dean’s, begging without words.

And later, “H.P. Lovecraft went here, Dean.” Ocean-blaze bright, because Dean can’t appreciate literature worth shit, but he writes horror, Dean, that should mean something to someone like you. Dean enrolls him in the damn school, buoy of cream in a sea of coffee, and Sam hardens himself against taunts the way he always does.

Sam never fumbles. Not like Dean.

Dean’s eyes flit across the street, families with younger kids; they get out later than high schoolers. Banana bus, hurtling somewhere too late.

Dean’s five minutes from the Prison when he sees it, eyes scanning residual cracks in cement, initials carved illegally in the wet.

There’s a clump of dirt, schoolyard strain, milk-chocolate brown next to the black-coffee soil of this part of the street.

The _shuriken_ in Dean’s pocket grows heavier and Dean steps onto the grass, walks a little to the left. He’s got more of an inkling of just how ill-suited he is to his quest; he’s not constructed for this. He’s not got the wherewithal to endure anything against Sam.

He won’t come out of it.

His boots sink into the earth like quicksand; it rained the other day and the moist heat of the sun isn’t enough to dispel the remains of that. Dean follows blind for a few feet until he sees it again, smaller handful than before, leading to the winding between houses.

There’s a barbed wire fence between the two of them, and if Dean looks up, he can see how close they are to the High School, close enough to hear the grunts of sports practice, stragglers hanging about on the front steps.

The indentation of dirt is smaller here, and Dean has to squeeze between the nothingness of the barrier between plots of land.

Sammy’s running out, Dean thinks, and the thought is detached, air-balloon far off, and if Dean squints, he can’t even really make out what it says.

He hears Sam like an extension of his own heartbeat; his first thought is that his hearing’s going, maybe he’s Super, can sense what’s going on with a special power coded into Samuel Winchester.

He understands what he’s listening to a second late.

“Stop, stop,” Dean hears, and it’s even worse than a hunt, because Dean’s absolutely nothing but this moment, right here.

Dean steps on the last bit of dirt, and it’s so small he’d have missed it if he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. Sammy was scared, then.

The man’s big as Dad, no problem, and this doesn’t give Dean pause, not like anything would’ve. His hand is twisted down the front of Sam’s pants, Nike sweats loose around the glass of Sam’s hips, and Sammy’s crying, face scrunched up in terror.

His brother’s hands are held too-tight in the grip of Nameless, and Dean can see the red under Sammy’s fingers, the way he’s clawed down the side of the man’s neck. Sam’s wrists are chaffed, and then Sammy’s head falls to the side.

Dean can see the scrape of it, the drag of Sam’s long hair against the exposed brick, and Dean doesn’t know if either of them can recover from something of this magnitude.

Dean flings the _bo-shuriken_ with terrible accuracy, and Nameless catches it in the lumbar. Nameless bends over, hand still embedded in the depths of his Sammy, caught tight in the snare of Dean’s little brother, and Dean’s making an awful noise; there’s a reckoning.

Sammy’s not moving, he’s sliding down the wall along with Nameless, and then Dean’s there, ripping his hand free, and there’s so much poison curling out of his mouth and down his chest and into the atmosphere that he can’t shield Sam from any of the malignancy.

“Oh Jesus, fuck, M’gonna kill you. M’gonna honest-to-God rip your spine from your body,” Dean’s chanting, and it’s not loud, it’s steel-thick and firm, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with the truth of it.

Dean leans down to pull the weapon out, and Nameless moans, but Dean drags Excalibur outwards inexorably, and it’s covered in crimson, paint-splatter of it.

“Dean, Dean,” Sammy says, and Dean listens, like a whisper in the back of his consciousness, and then he can see Sammy, head tilted back up, eyes fleeting.

“I said it, I said you’d come,” Sammy slurs, and Dean’s not sure his baby knows where he is, knows what this monster wanted from him.

Dean’s shaking, because he thought Sammy’d be able to do this for himself, fling the killing stroke and put everything back in its box, the way he’s wont to do, and Sammy can’t do anything. Not this fracturable child.

Dean can’t make him suffer, not when Sammy’s stuck to the ground, pants tangled round his thighs, palms braced against damp earth, eyes lasering in and out on Dean like old-time movie flickers.

Dean leans down, and he can’t see past his own eyes, it’s so difficult, and plunges the dagger back in at the lumbar, same spot as before. Nameless wails, and Dean readjusts the grip he’s got around the back of the man’s neck.

Dean slides his hand around to the front of the man’s face, cups his hand around the man’s chin, four fingers barring the sounds coming loose from his mouth.

Dean drags the _bo-shuriken_ up, and it’s painstaking, it’s not a weapon designed for this sort of carnage. It’s meant as a distraction, but Dean can’t use the Beretta, and Sammy’s shivering down there, hung in on himself like wire.

Dean can hear the pop as it carves through the thoracic, gunshot sling as Dean knifes through 24 bones to get to the ribs.

Nameless is spasming underneath Dean, but there’s absolutely nothing but this point, and Dean’s only aware of two things, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to pull himself back and out from the delicacy of this center.

Dean’s exhausted by the time the _shuriken_ makes its way up the cervical, and then the man’s neck splits open under Dean’s heady assault, and Dean’s hand has moved away from the man’s mouth and hovers over top of his head.

Nameless is silent beneath him, and Dean thinks life left his body long before this moment, but Dean’s a finisher.

The iron pops free with a snap and Dean jams it in his pocket without a second thought. They’ll need to burn him, Dean thinks wildly, but there’s no time for that.

Dean knows what he must look like, scattered with marrow and scarlet as he is, but Sammy reaches up his arms when Dean comes closer, and Dean sounds like a dog when he opens up his mouth on a wail.

“S’okay Dean,” Sammy’s saying, and his small hands drag down Dean’s stubble and back across. “M’okay,” Sammy tries again, and Dean hauls him up, tugs his pants back round his waist.

Sammy’s shivering, and it’s not cold at all, but Sam’s willowy, and his body waves back and forth between Dean’s and the wall.

“I’ll kill him again, oh God, Sammy,” Dean hisses, and Sammy’s chilled fingertips are carding through his hair, firm bits of bone.

“Can we go home?” Sammy asks, and his nose is frost against Dean’s chest, seeping through the sticky-bloodrain of Dean’s t-shirt.

“Baby, Sammy,” Dean says, and then he’s carrying his little brother, heedless of the way they stick together, sewn up tight.

-

Sammy’s covered in blankets, head to toe, and Dean’s got the AC blasting on max. Sammy’s eyes are sleep-heavy, and Dean can’t coax him to eat anything more; he pushes away sandwiches and milk and even clam chowder soup, and Sammy loves that.

“I didn’t see him,” Sam admits, face barely a sliver from inside the mound Dean’s placed him in. Dean’s sitting in a chair, as close to the edge of the bed as he can get without toppling over on top.

Dean’s elbows bracket his knees, and he wants to touch Sammy so bad he burns up with the need.

“I knew you were comin’ back and I forgot,” Sammy says, so plain that Dean chokes out a laugh for how simply Sam puts the things that matter most.

“I always bring the dirt, like you told me,” Sammy says, and his voice is sleep-tangled, but he’s shaking underneath his Dean-imposed cocoon.

“Sam,” Dean shorts out, and Sammy’s eyes are suddenly back open, slack-jawed. “Dean?” Sammy questions, and Dean’s changed his entire outfit, t-shirt and basketball shorts replaced any lingering memories, and he peels back Sammy’s cave.

Dean curls himself around his little brother, pulls Sam flush against him, chest to chest. Sam’s body parentheses around his, and Sam’s holding one fist inside the other.

“C’mere,” Dean demands, and Sam falls open for him, bundles himself up close, hips snapping into Dean’s groin with a residual ache.

“S-sorry,” Sammy breathes, and he tilts his neck back, catches Dean’s eyes. “Devil-pretty,” Sammy says, and the words are foreign, but Sammy says them with such hard conviction that Dean goes cross-eyed, he’s kissing his boy so quickly.

Sammy’s mouth falls open under his attack, like he didn’t expect it, didn’t see how Dean could give this to him, and Dean slots his thumb underneath Sammy’s chin, pulls his mouth open further.

Sam’s tongue slithers out and Dean sucks on it, just the tip, only to hear Sam mewl and feel his body jerk forward, involuntary with pleasure.

Dean hangs back, just to watch the slick of Sammy’s mouth, pulled pink like taffy, all open and heavy from Dean’s hunger. Dean’s suddenly struck with the vibrancy of this monster he houses of Sam, the necessity of it.

It carves him up in ways that should be his desecration.

“I think,” Dean says cautiously, recognizes that he needs to make Sammy see, but he’s like an atomic bomb with words, “that if anything happened t’you Sammy,” Dean says, “I think I’d, uh, I’d light the world up. On fire.”

Dean’s holding his breath, because that’s the only verbal approximation he has for Sammy. Sammy’s breath is quiet in their togetherness, and his eyes are drooping; he’s exhausted.

“I don’t know how to not be with you,” Sammy says quietly, and Dean thinks this is the safest place he can think of to tell Sammy this, to be this ribcage-broken for his brother, the love of his life.

“I’ll kill him again,” Dean says vehemently, and that’s not what he meant to say, but it’s trembling so far within him that he thinks he’ll shatter with the knowledge if he doesn’t ensure that Sammy knows the truth of it. Dean’s trembling, heartbeat an edible taste in his mouth.

“Every day I look at you,” Dean fumbles, because Sammy needs words like Dean needs weapons; aren’t they interchangeable? “There’s no one else, baby,” Dean says. “Gotta stay mine.”

Sammy’s nodding, so careful, and Dean curves his arms around that spindle waist, and Sam’s breath shudders out sweetly against his neck.

“When’s Dad comin’ back?” Sammy says, and he’s pressing butterfly kisses around Dean’s throat, hands caught in the back of Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s too caught up in the smell of Sammy to answer right away, tears and rainbow candy, sense-rain.

“Tomorrow,” Dean says, and then he answers the unasked question between them. “I won’t tell him,” Dean confirms, and Sammy just, wilts.

Dean knows he takes all the flak for this, his greatest disappointment, his crowning damnation, but he won’t soil Sammy with talk of that. He’ll own this til the day they take him away.

“S’enough?” Sammy asks, so lowly Dean almost asks him to repeat himself.

Dean pulls Sammy flush atop him, Sammy’s body trembling in fear. Dean can kiss at the jut of Sammy’s collarbone, mouth at the skin with his lips.

“Sweetheart,” Dean rasps, and here’s everything.

 


End file.
